The Mysterious Boy

Armed only with an oracle's mark and a vision, a mysterious boy must persuade six warring tribes to lay down their weapons and trust in something they don't yet understand.

This is an updated version of a Grey Robes myth told from a boy’s perspective.

Long ago, there lived a boy who wandered the borderlands between six warring tribes. He had no tribe of his own—or perhaps he had been born of all six. He lived quietly, moving from place to place, observing the world with patient eyes. Some whispered he possessed a Shaman’s sight, though he wore no marks.

The six tribes were at war. Each tribe lived according to its own way, which each considered The One True Way.

One tribe lived by Reflection and Theorization.
One tribe lived by the Creation of Beautiful Things.
One tribe lived by Devotion to the Divine Mystery.
One tribe lived by Careful Observation and Record-keeping.
One tribe lived by the Language of Imagination and Story.
One tribe lived by Clear, Enforceable Rules.

Because there were six ways, what did that mean for the five other ways? Each believed the five other ways were false ways. So each reasoned,

If we don’t attack them first, they will surely do so and impose their untrue ways upon our children and enslave our wives.

So, the six tribes went to war against each other. No one knows who started the war, but it was so bloody that each tribe lost fifteen percent of its men after only months.

The boy watched the carnage from the hills and felt the weight of it all pressing on his heart.

One night, the boy dreamed of blood soaking into sand, of children crying for fathers lost to combat, and of land that longed to be tilled instead of battle-trodden. Then came a moment of piercing light. He woke with a certainty burning in his breast that he could no longer bear witness to the violence.

The boy set out across the sands to find the oracle, walking for a day with little food and water, driven by something he could not yet name.

The oracle dwelled in a cave beyond the desert, where few dared to venture. When the boy arrived, thirsty and stumbling from the journey, the oracle—as if he had expected him—tossed him a waterskin. The boy had no choice but to guzzle its contents.

The water was bitter.

The oracle showed him a vision: a great civilization sprouting from the battlefields. The boy saw a hexagram. He saw nuptials. He saw burnt offerings. He understood what he must do.

“You must carry this message to all six tribes,” said the oracle. “You cannot fail to persuade them. But know this—they will doubt you, mock you, and threaten you. You have no tribe, no authority, and no proof. So you will be tested, but failure is death—for them and for you.”

Then he took the boy’s hand and used a ceremonial knife to slice it with an X.

“Show them this,” he said flatly as he cut.

The oracle wrapped the boy’s hand and let him sleep by a fire at the cave’s mouth. In the morning, the oracle gave him a freshly filled skin and a few dried victuals.

The boy set off toward the land of the six tribes.

When he arrived, weary and worn, at the outerlands, another battle had just ended in a sanguine stalemate. The tribes were gathering their dead.

The boy made no delays, wandering into the first encampment. He sought out the Shaman, never the Chief, for he knew only the Shamans might hear truth beyond tradition, wisdom beyond war.

He spoke this message and raised his hand to display the oracle’s mark:

I have been to see the oracle across the sands. He showed me the end of this war. A great civilization shall sprout from the battlefields. Fate commands you to take the following measures, which you must negotiate among your people.

The coming solstice begins a cessation of violence, which shall last a fortnight.

Each tribe’s Shaman must select five virile men and five nubile women of marrying age. On the fourteenth day, each Chief must fetch his finest animal and bring it to the rocky gorge. Each Shaman must bring a Priest and the tribe’s unmarried ten to the same. There, in the rocky gorge, you will find a great hexagram. First, the Shaman will bring the Priests and unmarried ten to the hexagram. Then, each Chief will bring his prize animal to the hexagram.

Only Chiefs may carry swords. Defectors will be cursed.

In each tribe, a coterie of advisors warned against heeding the admonitions of a boy of unclear origins. Some threatened him. Others laughed. But the boy stood firm, repeating his message to the Shamans with unwavering conviction.

The Chiefs, hearing of the message, were war-weary and superstitious. The Shamans assured the Chiefs that he bore the oracle’s mark. But something more in the boy’s eyes made the Shamans believe.

The boy carried his message to all six tribes, walking among armies. Prompted by the boy, the Shamans resumed their work as emissaries among the tribes.

After the prescribed fortnight, the boy stood alone on a cliff above the rocky gorge, watching as the Shamans, Chiefs, Priests, and sixty unmarried youth descended upon the hexagram.

Everything depended on this moment.

The Shamans instructed the sixty unmarried to pair off according to the arrangement. Once paired, the Priests married the couples in a grand ceremony inside the hexagram.

With four breaths of MHMH, the Priests marked the wedding’s end.

Next, the Shamans made a great fire in the center of the hexagram. Each Chief brought his animal—goat, lamb, or ram—to his designated point on the circle, and the Shamans resumed their MHMH. This time, their murmur crescendoed. The six Shamans became increasingly entranced, rolling their eyes back into their heads, showing the whites.

The boy’s heart pounded. He waited for the precise moment. The Chiefs gathered with their prize animals.

Suddenly, someone beat a loud drum. Then, silence.

Everyone turned to see the boy standing on the cliff above them. He raised his hand, still healing with the oracle’s X, and gave the signal. Each of the Chiefs slit his animal’s throat. Then, the Chiefs placed their offerings into the fire one by one.

The Priests and Shamans resumed their MHMH.

Everyone knew the war was over when the sky had accepted their sacrifices. The boy felt the shift and could see it in the faces below. The vision had come true. The impossible had come to pass.

But when they all turned to receive his final blessing, the boy had already vanished. He slipped away into the evening shadows, his task complete. He did not need their gratitude or recognition. He had done what fate required.

Below in the rocky gorge, the married couples went away to consummate their unions. The Shamans went away, and the Priests left the Chiefs to parlay.

The conversation did not go well.

Each Priest, being a zealous adherent to the One True Way, had whispered into the ears of his Chief, saying Each should have his place, but you should rule the rest.

The philosopher king would have the wisdom to govern a greater kingdom. A sovereign who creates beauty would guarantee a peaceable kingdom. A ruler of religious zeal would ensure that all would kneel before the Divine. An observer of the natural world would reign according to observation and method, but neither passion nor ambition. A man of letters would see the people’s timeless truths and set down a ruling mythos for posterity. A great Lawgiver would set all the people on paths of obedience and order.

Each pleaded his case—red faces flecked with the spittle of certainty. But as dawn neared, each learned he was as wrong as he was right.

Defection would be its own curse, so they made a compact.

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By twilight, they had not only established a peace but a league. They decided to build trade routes among the six tribes in six interwoven ways.

Delegates to the League met quarterly under the banner of the hexagram, and the Chiefs met yearly to assess their growing civilization. They commemorated that first day with inter-tribal marriages, sacrifices, and feasts.

The league and the peace would last a thousand years, all thanks to a mysterious boy and his hexagram.

Though no one ever saw the boy again, his story became a legend.